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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29073528">Carve Its Bitter Name</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Urbenmyth/pseuds/Urbenmyth'>Urbenmyth</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Magnus Archives (Podcast)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Gen, Is Jonah having a good time or not?, Loss of Identity, Loss of Memory, Spoilers, canon typical season 5 bullshit, spoilers for 192, yes - Freeform</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-01-30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 11:08:45</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,238</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29073528</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Urbenmyth/pseuds/Urbenmyth</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>The Pupil had won.</p><p>He ruled the world, he saw all fear. He'd won. Forever.</p><p>Hadn't he?</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>7</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>58</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Carve Its Bitter Name</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It’s hard to think. It’s pointless to think.</p><p>He hasn’t thought in eternity.</p><p>He only <em> sees. </em></p><p>He has no need for the metaphors of others. He doesn't see houses or forests or graveyards or hospitals or castles or cages or mazes. He sees what the world really is.</p><p>He sees the subtle, hissing fear of guilt and shame and self-hatred...</p><p>“<em>I’m your doctor now. Doctor David.” </em></p><p>
  <em> “What a funny little dance, Francis. Such a funny dance.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> "I should have known. What a disappointment.’ </em>
</p><p>...and the heady, rushing fear of running and fighting and desperation...</p><p>“<em>She’s in here!” </em></p><p>
  <em> "What’s the time, Mr. Wolf?” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> "Good lad. Heroes one and all. A noble sacrifice.” </em>
</p><p>...and the leaden, crushing fear of helplessness and oppression and domination...</p><p>“<em>If you would like to say a few words…” </em></p><p>
  <em> “Oh please, god, Sabina; we’re burning!” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> "The laws have changed" </em>
</p><p>...and the quiet, cloying fear of emptiness and resignation and despair...</p><p>"<em>To be wanted you must be less.” </em></p><p>
  <em> "Look at it. What does it think it’s doing here?” </em>
</p><p>“<em>Maybe the fog’s here because I want it here.” </em></p><p>...and the spiking, shrieking…</p><p>Wait.</p><p>Did he know that last voice?</p><p>Well, yes, of course he did, he knows everyone, but it's just one <em>sufferer</em>, it's just one <em>human</em>. Its name doesn’t matter, not to the Pupil. Not to…</p><p>"<em>Take it back, take, take it back…” </em></p><p>Where is this coming from?</p><p>
  <em> "Shut up. It wasn’t my fault.” </em>
</p><p>Who’s saying this?</p><p>”<em>Please, Jonah, if you have any compassion within your heart, you will not leave me in this place.” </em></p><p>There...Jonah. There was a Jonah, wasn’t there? Wasn’t there?</p><p>Or a James? Or an Elias? Or a Richard? Or…</p><p>The Pupil gazes, turning away from the litany of horror. Is there? Of course there are. Thousands. There are Jonahs and James and Eliases and Richards and Daniels and Micheals and…</p><p>What are these names? Why do they matter? And how can he not <em>know</em>?</p><p>It hurts, to do more then observe. He only wants to observe. To observe for all eternity. To delight in watching the fear, king of a ruined world.</p><p>So why was he so desperate to...</p><p>Wait. Elsewhere. A place of loss and denial. <em> “I’m still Hannah!”. </em>A reflection of a thing of I-Do-Not-Know-You. Why there? What’s…</p>
<hr/><p>
  <b>Ceaseless Watcher</b>
</p><p>
  <b>turn your gaze</b>
</p><p>
  <b>upon this wretched thing.</b>
</p>
<hr/><p>The Pupil Obeys. He knows the archivists, knows their status, the archives they contain, walking mouths of fear feeding him. He knows that. Let the Archivists do what they want. Show who rules this world.</p><p>But...</p><p>Is this one...different? It can’t be. <em>It hurts</em>. It’s just another archivist. <em>Something’s wrong</em>. Who is this?</p><p>“<em>Hello Jon. Apologies for the deception” </em></p><p>There is so much fear here. He’s the Pupil. Just the Pupil. Just…</p><p>“<em>Jonah was dying.” </em></p><p>He wasn’t.</p><p>“<em>Jonah was always dying” </em></p><p>He’d won.</p><p>“<em>Jonah was dying now” </em></p><p>He was king of a ruined world.</p><p>
  <em> "However many thousands of years may be experienced in time, eventually this world will be left barren and empty.” </em>
</p><p>
  <strike> HE’D WON </strike>
</p><p>Why was the Pupil angry? He saw everything. There was a Jonah trapped in his own house, and a Jonah surrounded by a family that wasn't his, and a Jonah lost in a scorching desert. There were many Jonahs, and he knew all of them. What made this one's fear special? Why couldn't he tell which one's fear he was seeing?</p><p>Besides, he was <strike> trapped </strike> suspended in an eternal moment of perfect observation. He shouldn’t feel anger. He shouldn't feel anything. Only perfect joy at the fear and dread he endlessly consumed</p><p>Why…</p><p>It hurt. Something was wrong.</p><p>The archivist...<em> the </em> archivist?...called on him to destroy a thing of pain and fire, of dysphoria and bone, of lies and doors. And it looked familiar. It looked personal. He knew it. He didn’t know how. <em>How could he not know</em>? He was the Pupil, and there was something <em> he didn’t know </em>. Something he wasn’t watching.</p><p>
  <em> Something that might be watching him </em>
</p><p>He wasn’t scared.</p><p>He couldn’t be scared</p><p>
  <strike> He’d won. </strike>
</p><p>When the Archivist ...AN archivist…disappeared, he broke from the monologue of fear and horror for the first time. What had <em>happened</em>? He turned his gaze frantically, every eye in the sky turning from their charges, but to no avail. It wasn’t dead. It wasn’t trapped in a domain. It wasn’t swayed by another power.</p><p>It was gone.</p><p>Were there places he couldn’t see? The Pupil Of The Eye, blinded? That was impossible. He'd won. He was king of this world. <strike>He wasn't afraid.</strike></p><p>When the archivist returned, he went back to his vigil. But he kept looking. There was something special here. Something wrong. And when it entered his city, he sent out his eyes to see it. To Know what it was</p><p>It vanished again, and he called out. He needed to see what was wrong. He cried out. Come up the tower, he said. Come explain yourself. <em> Come tell me what I don’t know. </em></p><p>Tell me what’s miss...</p>
<hr/><p>
  <b>Ceaseless Watcher</b>
</p><p>
  <b>see your servants approach</b>
</p><p>
  <b>herald their arrival </b>
</p><p>
  <b>and bid them welcome into your sanctum.</b>
</p>
<hr/><p>Servants. Thank God. (What god is there other than the Pupil?)(did it worship once?)(<strike> before? </strike>)</p><p>There was no before. Just the Pupil. Only the Pupil and the world it Watches.</p><p>He was distracted. He had to focus.</p><p>Servants. That’s all. Just another archivist, enacting his will on the world. Nothing special.</p><p>The Assistant spoke to him, through the blur of domains and fear.</p><p>“<em>Excuse me, sir. Two gentlemen here to see you. The Archivist. And, uh… an associate.” </em></p><p>Good. Just another archivist. Stumbled up through the tower, no doubt. He gave it the Assistant's tale to feed on and waited until it wandered away. <strike>To think he was scared. The Pupil</strike>. He wasn’t. He couldn’t be scared. He reached for the domains, to feast on their fear once more.</p><p>
  <em> “A Mr Sims” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Mr Sims </em>
</p><p>He was Jonah Magnus.</p><p>
  <em> You never wanted this, no. But I’m afraid you absolutely did choose it. </em>
</p><p>There was a before. He was powerful there, and he’d used Jonathan Sims, fed him on fear.</p><p>
  <em> Are you scared, Jon? </em>
</p><p>He’d created this world. He’d made it like this.</p><p>
  <em> Now. Repeat after me. </em>
</p><p>And now he was trapped. Ever watching. Just the pupil. He was trapped. He was trapped and could do nothing but watch and an enemy was approaching.</p><p>Sims might replace him</p><p>Sims might join him</p><p>
  <strike> Sims might kill him</strike>
</p><p>He opened the door.</p><p>There was Sims, writhing with worms and burning with wax and bleeding from smiles and torn by dysphoria and… it swirled around him. He was a <em>masterpiece</em>, and he shook with fear. “No…”</p><p>And there was Blackwood, surrounded by fog, face contorted with rage, screaming insults, grasping scraps of stone to throw. “Oi! Dickhead! “</p><p>And there was the Pupil, looking away, still reciting its story. What does it care for one more archivist, much less one more human? “he screams his pitch is low and black as night that flows and chokes his withered throat and…”</p><p>But there was Magnus. And he looked at the world from a thousand eyes high above. And he looked at his old enemies. And he looked at the golden crown that swallowed him and defined him and <em> erased him </em>.</p><p>For the first time in so very, very long, he didn’t have a plan for what happened next.</p><p>And he was so very, very afraid.</p>
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